


There's A War On

by TeyrianTimelord



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Captain America: The First Avenger, Consent Issues, Dubious Consent, F/M, Foursome - F/F/F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Nothing explicit, Steve Rogers is Not a Virgin, Steve doesn't know he can say no, but still, pretty tame, regret after sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 18:16:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20605187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeyrianTimelord/pseuds/TeyrianTimelord
Summary: When sailors come home after having been at sea a long time, they start to act like chorus girls on tour.No one warned Steve about this part of the job.





	There's A War On

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to the trashiest thing I've ever written. It's still pretty tame by fanfiction standards, but still a step outside my usual comfort zone.
> 
> As the tags state, there is some dubious consent here. Steve never says "no," but he doesn't say "yes" either.

The first time it happens, it seems innocent enough. 

The crowds are roaring, the lights are blinding, and the sweat is dripping down his back like water out of a bad faucet. He has only a few minutes to take a deep breath before the girls finish up their second dance and he has to back on stage again to thank a few local politicians for welcoming the USO tour into their city. This is only his second appearance in front of a crowd and he feels like he has asthma all over again. Every cheer from the audience is like a breath out of his own lungs. He’d taken beatings that were less painful than this. 

His few minutes of respite end far too quickly, and the girls are all funneling back through the narrow stage door. One by one they all 16 of them prances by, still wearing the glamorous smiles that could make any Hollywood starlet jealous. He nods cordially to each as they go, and somehow every single one of them without fail gives him some kind of smile or wink or blown kiss. Just as he wonders if he will ever get used to having the attention of women, the last girl in line (he thinks her name is Marlene) gives him a quick kiss on the lips faster than he can even blink. 

“See ya later, Stevie,” she calls in her heavy Manhattan accent as she keeps moving toward the dressing room. 

He doesn’t have time to wipe the lipstick off his mouth before he’s shoved back out in front of the crowd. 

*

The second time it happens, he doesn’t have it in him to say no. 

He doesn’t want to go back to his hotel room yet, so he stays in the theater another few hours with his sketchbook. With his newfound celebrity status, there are very few people who turn down his requests for anything, and tonight that includes the house manager. The audience seats are comfortable enough and the few lights that remain on give him just enough to work with. About half an hour into his sketch of Bucky in his uniform, he hears a soft noise coming from backstage. By this time of the night, the rest of the cast usually goes back to their rooms to turn in for the night or out on wild benders around the newest city. Putting his book and pencil back into his bag, he quietly lifts himself over the front of the stage and pulls back the curtain. 

Hiding in a corner behind a pile of lighting equipment is the youngest chorus girl in the line, Joy. He knows her full name is Joyce Everton because she was the first to introduce herself weeks prior when the tour began. He knows she stole money from her cousin to hop a train from Philadelphia to get to her audition. He knows she lied on her paperwork and is only 17, not 18 like she’s supposed to be. He knows she’s an uppity, talkative daughter of a butcher because she told him as much in the span of three minutes at their first meeting. But now she did not look like that bright eyed young lady. The crumpled paper in her hand and the mascara running down her face tells a different story. 

“Are you alright?” he asks softly, doing his best not to startle her. 

She shakes her head ‘no’ and a new waterfall of tears spills over her face. 

“He’s gone,” she sobs, and throws the paper on the ground in front of her. “He’s gone and they can’t even bring him home.” 

Steve doesn’t have to read the letter to know what it says. Instead, he simply kneels down next to her so she can cry into his shirt. He’s careful when he hugs her to not be too rough, still getting used to his new strength, but it turns out to be a futile gesture. She suddenly throwing her arms around his neck and crawling into his lap, her mouth latching onto his. She tastes like salt and gin. She doesn’t stop crying. 

He wants to push her away, but can feel the suffering pouring out of her body in waves. 

*

The third time it happens, he can only think of Peggy. 

They’ve successfully completed their biggest show yet. After weeks away from home touring the country to rally Americans into joining the war effort, they’re all finally back in New York where they belong. And what a homecoming it was. The crowds were louder and larger than anywhere they’ve been before. A dozen additional dancers were brought in for this performance alone. Tickets sold at record speeds and the entrance line wrapped around the theater. Everything ran so spectacularly that Senator Grant himself was personally bankrolling the afterparty in the lobby, with enough champagne to drown a battleship. Which was a good call, because as Steve quickly learned, chorus girls drink like sailors. 

It was absolutely exhausting to mix and mingle with New York’s highest regarded politicians, businessmen, and socialites. Everyone wanted to shake hands with the Star Spangled Man with a Plan and tell him all the ways they were going to make him rich and even more famous. It finally got to be too much, and so he quietly slipped away back to his dressing room for some peace and quiet. 

“Get it together,” he says to himself in the mirror like a teenager getting ready for a date. 

He misses Bucky and his ability to work a room like no other. He can’t stop himself from wishing that they could trade places. Bucky would do this job wonderfully, schmoozing his way through crowds of adoring fans and saying all the right things while Steve could spend his days dodging bullets. The thought is interrupted, however, but Evelyn stumbling in through the door. She’s staggering left and right, spilling a bit from the half-consumed bottle of champagne in her right hand. She’s still wearing her costume, but her hat is practically falling off her head and one of her gloves is nowhere to be seen. 

“There you are!” the brunette slurs pleasantly. “The girls have been lookin’ everywhere for you, Stevie.”

She pauses with a quick hiccup and a log swig of her drink. 

“You’re missin’ the party.”

Steve takes the bottle out of her grip and puts it down on the makeup table. She lets out a pathetic whine.

“You’ve had enough to drink, Lyn,” Steve says firmly as he plants himself firmly back in his chair. 

“And you…” she replies with husk in her voice, stumbling over to lean on his shoulders. “Haven’t had nearly ‘nough.”

His heart begins to beat faster as she begins running her hands up down his chest, sloppily but deliberately tugging at the buttons down his dress uniform, sliding lower and lower until she hesitates at the hem of his jacket. He feels her breath on the shell of his ear and his entire face flushes with heat. The moment she nips at him playfully, he jumps to his feet. She’s grinning ear to ear. 

“You’re- you’re drunk,” he manages to stammer, backing away from her slowly. 

She follows him like a cat tracking its prey, closer and closer until his back hits the wall. 

“What difference does that make?” she practically growls, words dripping with inebriation. “You’re such a gentleman, always so good and so nice. It’s about time someone rewarded you for all that.” 

Her mouth crashes against his hungrily while her hands go straight to his belt. He starts to wriggle his way out of her grasp, but one leg hikes up around his waist. She’s small enough that he could easily throw her across the room if he wanted, but that seemed wrong. But what she was doing now seemed wrong too. No matter what he chose to do, it seemed like there was no right answer. His breath hitches when Evelyn unzips his fly and he could swear he jumps right out of his skin. 

“C’mon baby,” she murmurs against his lips without breaking away. “What if I promise to only take care of you? You don’t have to touch me, so nothin’ for you to be guilty about.” 

She doesn’t wait for him to answer before slipping her thumbs under his waistband and pulling his pants to the ground as she drops to her knees. The world begins to move in slow motion but he’s frozen in place, unable to move or talk or even think straight, because all he sees from his point of view is red lips and gorgeously pincurled brown hair. Every dream, every fantasy of Peggy flashes before his eyes as Evelyn wraps her mouth around him and bobs her head back and forth. He can’t stop himself from letting out a moan that sounds foreign even to his own ears. His autonomy returns just enough to let his hands grasp the wall behind him for support as she goes faster and deeper, the ecstasy heavy enough to be blinding. 

“ _ Peggy, _ ” he can’t stop himself from whimpering under his breath as she brings him closer to the end. “ _ Peggy… Peggy..:” _

If she can hear him, she doesn’t let it stop her. She finishes him off in an embarrassingly short amount of time without batting an eyelash. What’s left of his mind wonders how much practice she’s had. When she finally stands back up, she readjusts her hat and casually wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. 

“You’re a good guy, Steve,” she states matter-of-factly in the most sober she’s sounded all night. “Let’s do it again some time.”

She grabs the bottle of champagne and saunters off, leaving him alone with his longing for Peggy and the endless shame.

*

The fourth time it happens, it doesn’t really happen at all. 

It’s their last night together. In the morning, he and “a few lucky ladies” ship out for their European tour while the rest of them go back to the city jobs and small towns they came from. It’s an emotional evening, with lots of tears and embraces. The girls are a tempestuous combination of celebratory and sorrowful that is hard to navigate. Some of laughing, some are crying, some are a combination of the two. But not Steve. Sure, he smiles for the sake of the women who have had his back for months now, but there’s so much more on his mind. For many of them, this show was the most important time of their lives; their only chance to live for something different and follow the dreams they first had as children. For him, though, it was just another roadblock. 

In the midst of the cacophony, Steve feels a tap on his arm. He turns to find Mary, the senior most dancer, looking exasperated.

“Give me a lift, will ya, sweetheart?” she asks, even though she’s already halfway up his back. 

He obliges and lets her crawl onto his shoulders so she can shout above the cacophony roaring through the dressing room. The nylon of her stage tights feels rough on the skin of his neck. 

“Alright, alright, ladies, settle down,” she shouts in clear voice that God must have made for stagecraft. “We’ve had one hell of a time these last few months, and you’ve all done a bang up job better than any director could ever ask for. But let’s give a special hand to the one who made this all possible… our Star Spangled Man with a Plan!” 

Even more raucous noise erupts from the girls around him. None of them actually touch him, but he can see the desire in their faces. All sixteen of them. 

*

The fifth time it happens, it’s the last time. But that doesn’t matter.

He’d spent his morning marching back into base camp with the prisoners of war everyone else had given up on. Men whose MIA and KIA letters could now be burned to keep them warm instead of being sent Stateside. The cheers of the men around him, the look of pride in Peggy’s face, and the sheer unbridled joy of having Bucky back is intoxicating. He’d spent most of his night buying rounds for the newly assembled Howling Commandos to convince them to follow him into battle. True, the super soldier serum rendered him incapable of innebration, but the high of the day felt like the real thing. Well… almost the real thing. He didn’t have Bucky carrying him home and forcing him to drink water to keep him from throwing up all night.

It’s two in the morning when he finally leaves the bar and makes it back to his tent. He lets out a yawn, but all traces of drowsiness vanish when he pulls back the flap to find Midge, Charlotte, and Gloria sitting on the edge of his cot. Misses U, S, and A respectively. Wearing nothing but thin slips that left nothing to the imagination. 

“Don’t be shy, honey,” Lottie says sweetly, standing up to take his hand in her own. “Evelyn told us about that night in New York. Said you enjoyed yourself. We just wanted to show our gratitude too.”

Steve feels an icy chill overtake his entire body. Peggy is on the other end of camp, probably still in her perfect red lipstick and folding that perfect red dress. It was bad enough dealing with a single drunk showgirl, but three of them in a totally sober state is more terrifying than any HYDRA goon or Nazi soldier could ever be. 

“I’m- I’m flattered, ladies, but I-I,” he stammers awkwardly. 

As he tries to form the perfect sentence that can get him out of this mess, Gloria comes up behind him and begins trailing her hands all over his shoulders and back. She runs so much hotter than he would have expected, and he can feel the heat of her slim palms through the wool of his jacket. It’s shockingly… nice. The moment of distraction lures Midge forward to get to work on the buttons. Her movements remind him of the time he and Bucky found an injured puppy on their way home from the boardwalk, and the way they had to carefully approach it to keep from scaring the poor thing into limping off. He wants to get out the rest of his words, to tell her he doesn’t want to compromise his integrity for a one-night fling, but she beats him to it.

“You know, your pal Bucky is the one who told us you deserve nice things,” she murmurs against his ear as she slides his coat to the pallet floor. 

It hits him like a punch in the gut. All those years Bucky spent trying to set him up, and now he finally had the opportunity to drive his mission home. The gears start to turn faster as Charlotte makes quick work of his shirt, leaving his skin exposed to the dark and the damp and the cold and the blinding warmth of six hands falling on him all at once. Try as he might, he can’t wrap his head around  _ how  _ just their touch can feel as pleasurable as Evelyn’s lips. He prays the low groan rising in his throat doesn’t make it out of his mouth. 

He should say no. He should tell them to leave. He should ask them to pretend this never happened. He should punch Bucky in the teeth for setting this up. He should run to Peggy’s tent and confess everything. But he can’t. So he doesn’t. They don’t leave until the sun begins to rise and each of them has had her turn. 

He feels empty, but there’s a war on. Doesn’t everyone? 


End file.
